In The Shadow of Two Canes
by Roga
Summary: They both wish the other was real. A House West Wing crossover, except not really.


**In The Shadow Of Two Canes**

After three days, Abbey couldn't take it anymore.

She sat down next to Jed, who was resting on the couch, a wool blanket covering his lap. "Hey," she said.

"Mmm," he nodded, absently placing a warm hand on her thigh.

"You know that cliché about the former President of the United States who has nothing better to do than sit around watching TV?"

Jed grunted.

Abbey sighed. "I was so hoping it was just a cliché."

"Shh, watch this part— he's going to get an epiphany now—" Abbey watched the camera zoom in on the dripping wet, blue eyed doctor on screen. "There it is," Jed said with satisfaction. "Eleventh hour, but he's got it."

"Jed." She cupped his cheek gently with a hand and forced him to look at her. "You've got to let go of this show. You're obsessing. It's not healthy."

Jed held her gaze for a long time, and finally looked down. "I know," he sighed. "It's just…" His eyes wandered back to the screen, and Abbey looked as well, seeing another doctor injecting a patient in a wheelchair with Cortisol, and within a few seconds he was standing on two legs. "You know, in the beginning of the episode they thought he had MS…" he trailed off.

"Oh, Jed," she said, leaning against his side. "It's just a TV show. There are no magical cures. There are no doctors like Dr. House, just doctors like me. And I'm pretty damn good."

Jed put an arm around her. "I know." He kissed the top of her head, and handed her the remote. "You decide what to watch."

Abbey flipped between two channels and was about to suggest that they do something more productive than watch TV, when her husband said, "Oh, Grease is on! Let's watch that."

She sighed, settling into the couch. He never could resist that movie.

* * *

After three days, Wilson couldn't take it anymore.

"House," he snapped at the lanky figure sitting in the dark office with nothing but the glow of a portable TV creating a bluish hallow around his face.

House barely raised an eyebrow.

"House," Wilson repeated sternly, stepping inside. "You have got. To stop. This obsession."

House grunted. "Quiet, I'm concentrating."

Wilson strode towards the desk with the express purpose of stealing the TV, but just as he reached it he was blocked by a cane. "Don't even try," House muttered.

Wilson's fists clenched with exasperation. "What _is_ it with you? I know it can't be Rob Lowe's boyish good looks, because you've only been watching seasons six and seven."

"As if boyish good looks are my type," House scoffed.

"Then _what_?"

House looked up at Wilson for a moment, seemed to come to a decision, and sighed. "Come here," he beckoned with a slight nod.

Wilson examined the screen intently. "What am I looking for?"

"Look at the way he's leaning on his cane. The way he's balancing his weight. It's not natural."

Wilson stared at House in shock, and started laughing.

"Shut up," House growled.

"You think… President Bartlet… has something other than MS?" Wilson managed to gasp.

House thwacked Wilson's hand with the cane. "That's it, out. Mocking privileges suspended until further notice. That being _forever_. Away with you and let me concentrate."

Wilson held his hands safely behind his back, and composed himself enough to speak. "Seriously, this is one of the most twisted hobbies you've ever invented for yourself."

House couldn't help but smirk. "Not by a long shot."

"There are enough real patients in the world without you having to resort to diagnosing fictional ones," Wilson pointed out.

"If I get it right, he might not even need to use the cane! God, I wish had a hold of his MRI results…"

"He's a fictional character. _And_ the show's already over. _And_ his limp is only caused by the way Martin Sheen is portraying him." Wilson paused. "And I can't believe I'm actually bothering to argue about this rationally with you. Come on," he said, grabbing the TV and jumping out of reach before House could react. "We're going home, and you'll find something less insane to obsess over."

House rose from his chair, grumpily scuffing both feet on the carpet as he followed Wilson out. "I _almost_ had my finger on it before you interrupted."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I have a copy of Dead Poets Society to get your mind off it."

House brightened. "Ooh, I've always liked that one."

Wilson snorted. "Boyish good looks not your type, my ass," he muttered under his breath, as the doors closed shut behind them.


End file.
